Other Ways to Get to the Same Place
by Dorminchu
Summary: "Elliot blinks several times, and the boy remains there, just like the blood staining Krista's rug. Where once there was a supply of input there is only silence. The boy's eyes, his build and clothes, are unmistakable, yet closer to a memory than mere reflection." [Spoilers for 4x07; speculation on 4x08]


a/n: Contains a couple allusions to past child abuse/molestation, as well as general suicidal tendencies; your discretion is advised.

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**01\. LOOKING FORWARDS AND BACKWARDS**

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The inky dark swallows the room and all else whole, save for the windows. On the inside of Krista's apartment, Vera continues to choke on his own blood. His struggle is torpid, useless. He'll die in a matter of minutes and it won't be pleasant.

To the side, Krista rights herself, her breath coming in panicked bursts. Her shoes play a rough staccato against the hardwood.

Elliot still hasn't moved. He can still feel the warmth of Vera's hand upon his skin like an impression left in snow.

Within seconds, there is sheer cacophony outside, muffled by panes but visible through the frosted glass, drawing Elliot towards the window. Most of it bleeds together, rendered incomprehensible, but he can imagine the scene; in the distance, vehicles crashing into each other and alarms sounding off over shouts and cries of those unlucky, unsuspecting pedestrians.

That panic won't last. It's just another incident of many, like the brownouts, blackouts, unpleasant yet inevitable. People will usually adjust to their circumstances and accept them as reality, no matter what is fair or right, because what's the use in complaining?

As long as he continues breathing, blood pumping through his veins, every passing second becomes a reminder of that which he can no longer outrun.

Elliot shivers, sniffs, trying to regain his composure. He wraps his arms around himself, but it doesn't help much. Shivering just gets worse. Inhale, exhale. Inhale—

—there's too much empty space in the room—

—the pressure on his lungs turns vicelike—fuck, what will he tell darlene—

—she knew before you did, always knew you just didn't trust her—

—exhaling, he can try to focus on the feeling of his feet on the floor. Cold air enters his lungs and is regurgitated unevenly.

His nose runs, he can't smell anything. He wipes it awkwardly on his sleeve, tries to calm down, just concentrate on the act of breathing itself.

Krista is here with him. It's her job to make sure he's okay.

The abyss behind the windowpane compels him forward, magnetic. He's stronger than Krista thinks. He could open the window and she wouldn't be able to talk him down from—from—

"Elliot?"

—sensation of frosted glass against his fingertips stops him first—_how could you be so selfish?_—and he knows he'll have to leave, sooner than later, or risk endangering her all over again.

"…Elliot."

He avoids Krista's eyes because he isn't sure who or what she'll see; filthy, wretched. He can't be helped, the state he's in.

"Elliot, please."

She's strong for his sake. Able to help, not because of Mr. Robot but in spite of him.

He detects movement just out of his peripherals. His eyes are drawn to the only source of illumination left in the room; the Christmas tree, and—

Stops. Doesn't process anything else past the blood roaring in his ears. Breath sticks in his throat like congestion.

Mr. Robot is gone. He's gone and he's not coming back, an echo, fragmentary in his passing.

Isn't he?

There's no point arguing with himself. What's done is done.

He's _gone,_ and yet—

Elliot blinks several times, and the boy remains there, just like the blood staining Krista's rug. Where once there was a supply of input there is only silence. The boy's eyes, his build and clothes, are unmistakable, closer to a memory than mere reflection.

—he's been waiting to meet you, after all this time—

Krista's hand closes around his own wrist, the same iron grip he thinks a mother would have, and he can hear the sound her voice makes without processing exactly what she's telling him, on the verge of collapse—

—the boy recoils—

_"Stop,"_ the word tears its way from his throat, instinctual; Krista gasps, flinches. "You're scaring him."

Krista's eyes drift to the spot in the room Elliot's been fixated on, in front of the Christmas tree, then quickly snap back to him. This time she doesn't falter: "Him? Are you talking about Mr. Robot?"

"No."

She pauses, then: "Your father?"

Elliot goes rigid. "_No._ No, not him, it's…" his voice is raw, and he tries again to be brave, for his sake, "it's okay. She wants to help us."

The kid doesn't relax, but when their eyes meet he seems to understand.

"Elliot, who do you think he is?"

What the fuck is he supposed to tell her? "I don't think I can say."

"Why not?"

"Because he—he's counting on me. And so is my sister. I have to find her before it's too late." Every precious second that ticks by will decide Darlene's fate. Krista isn't saying anything. An echo of the same faint terror crosses her face; Elliot wrenches free. "_Darlene_. I can't lose her again, Krista, do you understand?"

He turns to the boy, about to offer his hand, then thinks better of it. "Stay close to me."

Now, through the halls, down the stairs of her house, in the dark. He can feel the cold sinking into his skin where clothes cannot shield him. Krista's unease is better felt than addressed.

The boy is right behind him. Blind leading the blind. He's only wearing a t-shirt and jeans; he must be cold. Was he always so small?

He remembers; another hand in his, the smell of blood rich in his nostrils, a crippled sense of fear, unable to fight or take flight upon the floor of an abandoned cell, and who was there for him, always, but the hand on his back, pushing him into action, off the pier and into the rocks, his realization of that betrayal lost in freefall—

—a memory twists upon itself and tears itself apart in succession, returning him to the present. He cannot go back, even when it calls to him, clawing at him. An old and vile hurt that's been unaddressed for too long and cannot be contained.

He protected Darlene as best he could, because he was her older brother. But there's still someone else he needs to protect.

"Elliot."

They're down the stairs, now, at the door. The Dark Army is waiting. Nothing Krista can say right now will help, but he doesn't know what he should do to assure her. Is she still afraid of him?

He swallows, and tries looking her dead in the eye. A dark splotch colors the skin where clavicle meets blouse.

This might be the last time they talk. There's so much he should say.

"Thank you," he says hoarsely. "For everything."

And then he leaves.

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**02\. REMNANTS**

This isn't the end of things, only the start. He's finally, truly, alone—slipping through the cracks, down into the grimy subway. No one pays him any mind except for the boy, who won't stop following him even now.

Elliot checks his phone; Darlene still hasn't responded. He can't afford to worry but he's raw, reeling. The boy is watching him out of the corner of his eye. Elliot's sure no one else can see him. "Look, are you just gonna follow me around everywhere I go?"

The boy says nothing. Elliot forces himself to remain calm. If he snaps now, he's only gonna scare him away.

"Is this…because of what I said?"

The boy frowns slightly. Elliot side-eyes the crowd, checking for a sign of Vera's cronies, or men in black.

_I don't want to be alone anymore._

Elliot looks back at the kid, who is watching the tracks pensively. "Hey, don't." Without hesitation he puts his hand on his shoulder. The boy bristles. "I'm here to protect you," Elliot says brusquely. "I can't have you running off again."

The boy's eyes flash. Elliot doesn't dare take his eyes off of him. "Why are you here?" he demands. No answer. He lowers his voice: "Are you—like him?"

The boy looks at him strangely. Fuck, they can't afford this right now.There are too many eyes on him down here.

"…sorry," Elliot mutters, "I'm scared, too." Truth is the only thing that could hope to ground him after this. "I'll make sure you're safe. But first we have to help Darlene."

The boy glances at him, searching for something he can't put a name to. Then he nods, once, laconic.


End file.
